


Material Witness—Up and Away [Set just after A Death in the Family 1 x 10]

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Material Witness [10]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because it feels like nothing even when he writes. And he <em>does</em> write. He writes a little. He goes over his notes. He's swimming in notes even though it's hardly been two months." An interlude between Seasons 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Material Witness—Up and Away [Set just after A Death in the Family 1 x 10]

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after A Death in the Family 1 x 10 and before Significant Others 5 x 10; reference to 'Till Death Do Us Part 4 x 11.
> 
> A/N: The idea for this chapter was loaned by a friend. We were fan girling over _Up,_ and I realized it came out during the first Caskett estrangement.

_2009_

  
It's all Alexis's fault.

He knew the day would come. He just hadn't expected the Lear years to start at sixteen. Or whatever the twenty-first century equivalent of Shakespearian sixteen is. Although Cordelia might have been sixteen. Or was that Juliet?

It doesn't matter. She's _so_ not Cordelia anyway. Oh, she put up a good front. Played the dutiful daughter for 15 years, and then: _Betrayal._

Sudden betrayal and he's staring down into a jumbo tub of popcorn with double butter and a box of Milk Duds mixed in. An unfamiliar, vaguely nauseated feeling comes over him. He doesn't want any more. He could not possibly eat another delicious piece and the movie hasn't even started. He's become everything he hates and it is all Alexis's fault.

She refused to come with him. Said she'd already been his beard once for this movie and he was on his own. He doesn't need a beard. He's man enough to love Disney movies unapologetically, and anyway it's Pixar, which is totally for grown ups. He doesn't need a beard. It's just that they've only seen it in one of the possible flavors of 3D so far. They haven't even seen it in _2D_ yet, like they always do, and she's abandoned him.

Because apparently he's embarrassing. Apparently the fact that he's sensitive enough to cry at what Manohla Dargis called a "flawlessly realized love story" told with "extraordinary tenderness" is embarrassing. It's _embarrassing_ to his only daughter and she's too cool to be seen with him.

He tosses another handful of popcorn into his mouth defiantly. An errant Milk Dud nearly chokes him. He sits up and swallows hard, then rides the wave of nausea. He really can't eat any more. It's only the previews and this is all Alexis's fault.

Well, it's _mostly_ her fault. That snotty, acne-riddled kid behind the counter gets some of the blame, too. Because what was he supposed to do? They always, always, _always_ get the biggest possible tub. And the Milk Duds sprinkled in? A total taste and texture _sensation._ And of course they need two giant drinks to wash it all down. That's always their order.

_Always._ And, yeah, he's kind of on autopilot here, but what was he supposed to do? Cave to that little twit? Change it after _that_ eye roll and that pointed "Will that be _all_ for you, sir?" _No way, punk._ It's the principle of the thing.

And he's kind of on autopilot, which is why he's at the movies in the first place. He's been on autopilot for a couple of weeks now and he's not thinking about that. At all.

Because there's nothing to think about. At all. It's just a mood. A foul mood he can't shake. That he hasn't been able to shake for twenty-four days—not that he's counting, because he's _not_ —and it leaves him good for nothing. It leaves him feeling . . . unsettled. Like he's at loose ends. Like he should be doing something more important.

That shouldn't be a challenge. Doing something more important than nothing should not be a challenge.

But he doesn't _usually_ do nothing. He writes. And when he's not doing that, he researches. A lot. It's his _job,_ and it's important, even if it _looks_ like he's doing nothing. Even if it looks like he's just staring creepily or whatever, it's not usually nothing.

Except lately it is. Lately it's pretty much nothing. Or it feels that way. Even when he's doing something, it feels that way, and he's not thinking about that at all, either. He's not thinking why it might feel like that all of a sudden.

Because it feels like nothing even when he writes. And he _does_ write. He writes a little. He goes over his notes. He's swimming in notes even though it's hardly been two months.

He should be organizing them. Rearranging and transcribing and transferring them on to the storyboard. He's always been good at that. At creating the illusion of productivity. The illusion of doing _something._ He's always been able to sell that to himself, even when he knows deep down that he's procrastinating. That he won't _really_ do anything until the deadline looms and the pressure is on.

But now it feels like he's doing nothing. He reads the notes. Over and over he reads them, but every time he tries to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard there's a nagging voice that tells him he should be doing something more important.

A voice that says that what he does—what he's done for nearly twenty years now—isn't enough.

That what he's been doing up 'till now is nothing.

* * *

They're ruining it for him. Every black silhouette blotting out part of the screen. Every inane conversation at top volume. Every clumsy idiot tripping and spilling and banging into seat after seat while they run back and forth to the bathroom, to the concession stand, to wherever.

Like the posted start time wasn't ten minutes ago. Like they haven't been sitting there for the last twenty minutes—twenty minutes during which they could have been taking care of all those things—filling the assembled company in on the minutiae of their sad, _boring_ lives. They're ruining it. They're all _ruining_ it.

He doesn't get people who skip the previews. He thinks they probably look up crossword clues and cheat at online Spades and pee on the seat without wiping it off. He thinks they're sociopaths, and right now they just keep coming. It's like a clown car. A clown car full of preview-avoiding sociopaths who probably stopped by the bathroom first to pee on the seats, thus conveniently missing more previews.

He loves previews. He and Alexis are firmly of the opinion that previews are an integral part of the movie-going experience. _Totally._ They make up outrageous spoilers if the movie looks really bad. They trade outlandish, on-the-spot rumors about the cast and crew in loud whispers and go stone-faced and innocent when someone whips around to shoot them dirty looks. They laugh at the weird things juxtaposed on the same reel and try to string them together with storyline of their own.

Except not lately.

They don't do much of that lately. She's busy and he's been out at all hours for the last two months. Has been, but isn't any more. But she's still busy.

And the last couple times it's like her heart hasn't been in it. Like she doesn't want to get there half an hour early and be the first ones in the theater so they can have their pick of the seats. Dead center. Always dead center.

Lately it's like she's having second thoughts about the Milk Duds and she's humoring him with the spoilers and the rumors and the unified master storyline. It's not just this time. Not just this movie and one sob. One admittedly _really_ loud sob.

She's growing up. She's growing out of their rituals. She _is_ embarrassed by him and she _ought_ to be. It's the way it ought to go and he knows that. He _knows_ it and he's proud of her, but it's just . . .

He loves the movies and he doesn't get to go that often and who will he go with now?

His mother, once in a while, but she won't play any of the preview games and she doesn't even _like_ butter on her popcorn and Milk Duds are out entirely. Plus, she can't shut it off. It's a constant stream of professional commentary with her, and he isn't _nearly_ that bad when she's reading something. No matter what she says, when she's genuinely enjoying a book, he keeps his mouth shut. He _mostly_ keeps his mouth shut. He tries.

Movie dates are pretty much out. He hasn't been on one since . . . Kyra maybe? Not since five-dollar film festivals on campus. Maybe a couple of times with Meredith, but she never had much of an attention span. And Gina wouldn't be caught dead in a movie theater that didn't have a red carpet leading into it.

It can't have been that long. It can't go back as far as Kyra, but movie dates are out now anyway. Not exactly a Richard Castle–level experience, and what's the point in finding out right away that the woman in question doesn't like previews or Milk Duds or sitting in the exact middle of the theater? What's the point in having it be over before it starts?

It's not really Alexis's fault. It's just bad timing. It's just this mood he can't shake. This feeling that he's doing nothing and he can't even enjoy it.

His head lolls against the back of the seat and he watches the latecomers go by. He doesn't bother trying to keep his eyes on the previews because they're _ruining_ it.

He shifts his gaze from aisle to aisle and all of a sudden he sees her.

All of a sudden, there she is.

His face breaks out in a huge smile. He can feel it. His cheeks ache with it and he lets out a breath he thinks he must have been holding for twenty-four days. His hand moves to flag her down and he's shifting the popcorn tub off the seat next to him and her name is on his lips and it almost slips out.

_Almost._

And then he remembers. He remembers her smile fading. He remembers thinking it was gone for good. That one, anyway. The one for him. Small and wary and reluctant, but for him.

He remembers her receding. The stark white frame of the hospital hallway and her receding. Strong shoulders draped in bright blue. Something softer than her usual squared off blazers and tailored blouses. He remembers her going.

He remembers that they're done. That she warned him and he didn't listen. That it's been twenty-four days and the silence has been absolute.

They're done.

* * *

She looks different. He tells himself it's just that she's out of context. That the faded, soft-looking jeans and stretched out sweatshirt are just Beckett out of uniform. That she can't have changed _that_ much in twenty-four days. That he can't have missed much.

But she looks different. Her hair is longer. He thinks so anyway. It _seems_ longer and she has it scraped back into this bristly little pony tail that skims the hood of her sweatshirt.

She stops in the aisle two rows in front of him and turns. He hunches down in his seat. He hugs the popcorn to his chest and leans as far out of the light as he can. He's suddenly terrified that she'll see him and . . . and _what?_ She'll yell at him?

She won't yell. He wishes she'd yell. He wishes that she'd yelled then and gotten it out of her system. But she didn't and she won't now. She won't yell and he's not afraid of that anyway.

He's afraid she'll look right through him. He's afraid she'll go. He's afraid she's already gone for good.

She's not looking at him at all, though, and he unfolds a little. He's curious. He's always curious about her. Her eyes are fixed on a seat two rows in front of him. Exactly two rows in front of him. It's full. All the seats around it are full of chattering teenage girls and he almost laughs at the look on her face.

She's annoyed. Righteously annoyed. He studies her. She doesn't have any snacks and he knows she has a sweet tooth. He knows that much. Her wallet is still in her hand like she rushed in, and he thinks that's what the ponytail is about, too. He thinks that's what this casual version of Beckett is about.

She's careful about her appearance. He's never seen her looking anything less than entirely put together. Understated and neutral, but careful. This feels like a last-minute decision.

It's not her usual movie-going MO. He can tell. She looks harried and annoyed. Like this isn't how she does things. She doesn't skip the previews. Not usually. He can tell. And she has a seat that's hers. _Hers,_ and right this minute, she's wondering if she has probable cause to roust Courtney or Stephanie or whatever the kid's name is, because that's _her_ seat.

She pulls her lip between her teeth. He sets the popcorn aside and leans forward eagerly. He silently urges her on. He wants her to do it. He pictures her flashing her badge. Does she have her badge? Her gun? Does she take that stuff to the movies?

He doesn't know. He really doesn't know and he _wants_ to. He wants to and he can't believe he didn't find that out. How is he ever supposed to write Nikki Heat if he doesn't know stuff like that?

He decides she does. Nikki does. So does Beckett. Imaginary Beckett, anyway, and right now he wants to see Beckett Actual hauling the blonde up by the shoulder, flashing tin, and telling her to find another seat.

She doesn't, though. Of course she doesn't. She takes the aisle seat in the short row to the right and that's good for him. It's a perfect sight line for him, but she cranks her body toward the middle of the theater, and he knows she hates it. He knows she likes to sit exactly center just like him.

It makes him smile. Like they're sharing something. Like they could go to the movies together and just fall in step. However stupid it is, it makes him smile.

"Ex _cuse_ me."

The voice jerks him out of the fantasy. The voice is annoyed. He registers the fact that it belongs to someone who's been standing there a while.

"Yeah?" he snaps without really looking.

"Is this seat taken?"

He stifles a sigh and looks. It's a youngish guy in a meticulously disheveled thrift store outfit that probably cost a fortune. He's gesturing at the bucket of popcorn occupying the seat to Castle's left and no. _Hell_ no. He is _not_ sitting next to this clown.

_Sorry, pal, no sociopathic preview-skipping clowns allowed._

Castle tears his attention away from Beckett and looks the hipster in the eye.

"Yes, it's taken," he says pointedly. "I'm waiting for someone."

* * *

She scoots way down in the seat and braces her knees against the one in front of her. She doesn't exactly pull her hood up, but it's bunched high around her ears. She makes herself small and he thinks that's weird. _Odd._ There's nothing small about Kate Beckett.

The familiar music swells. Tinkerbell makes her way around the iconic castle. He tears his attention away from her.

He tries.

He _tries_ , but she's right there. Right _there_. He could slide into the seat behind her. Clamber over her and plop down next to her. (There's no question in his mind as to who gets the aisle seat. She gets the aisle seat. Obviously.)

She's right there. Close enough that he could bean her with a piece of popcorn or a Milk Dud or a supercluster of pieces held together by slightly melted chocolate and the questionable caramel center. He wouldn't, but he could.

He _probably_ wouldn't _._

He might _._ He thinks he might. If he thought it would do any good—if it would get her to talk to him—he might do it. He might throw movie theater concessions at her head if he thought would do any good at all. But it won't, and he tears his attention away from her.

He tries to tear his attention away, but she's smiling now. This secret little thing with her fist against her chin like she's half trying to hide it. But she can't. It's bigger than her. All her smiles are and she has no idea. Even the small one—the wary, reluctant one that used to be for him—is bigger than her and he wonders if anyone is following the short. If anyone but her has any attention to spare for the raincloud's crisis.

He doesn't.

But then her smile widens and she gives this delighted, silent little clap and his head swivels back and forth between her and the screen. He can't remember what the upshot of this one is. The short. Something about storks and prickly, dangerous babies?

He doesn't know what she's cheering for and he wants to know. He's frustrated and desperate and he misses her.

The air goes out of him and he sinks into his seat. The realization—the truth—is heavy on him, and he sinks with it. He misses her. He misses the work, and everything feels like nothing, and that's not a coincidence.

He might throw something at her after all.

His eyes are on the screen now. He doesn't have to tear his attention away.

He misses her. How fucking stupid is _that?_ He hardly knows her. She's been _not_ talking to him for almost as long as she's been talking to him. Especially when you factor in how much of the two months she spent trying _not_ to talk to him. It's _stupid._

It's really the work. He tells himself that it's really the work he misses and that's why everything feels like nothing. And it's true. That has something to do with it. A lot to do with it.

But he misses her.

He misses her and she's right there.

* * *

He's a wreck before Carl even appears on the screen. This was a mistake. His head feels tight. It weighs a thousand pounds and this was a mistake. A movie was a good idea. _This_ movie was not. This movie was a spectacularly bad idea. He should have seen _Wolverine_ again. That's how bad an idea this was.

He feels the tears gathering at the back of his throat long before Carl's balloon sails through the ceiling of the dilapidated house, but the first one falls then. He swipes at it angrily and swallows hard. He doesn't look at her.

By the time Ellie riffles through the blank pages in her adventure book and tells Carl she's saving them, the tears are falling fast and he can't look at much of anything. He can hardly see. He misses her and this was a mistake. A bad idea.

He worries the napkin in his hand and tries to find a corner that's at least relatively butter free. He gives up and uses his sleeve. His fingers are salty and his eyes burn and she's right there and he misses her.

He thinks the unthinkable. He thinks about going. Getting up and walking out of a movie he loves. Climbing over everyone in his row and walking out because it's too much.

Being here alone and feeling useless. It's too much. Feeling like he's doing nothing and having her right there and knowing she's gone. She warned him and he didn't listen and now she's gone. It's too much.

He looks at her. It's too much and he can't help himself anymore. He looks at her.

He stares.

She's crying. It's not even sad yet. Ellie and Carl are daydreaming on the hilltop and the clouds make themselves into fantastic shapes and they still have their whole lives before them and she's crying.

Sobbing, actually, though it takes him a minute to realize. She's made herself so small in the seat. Her arms are hugging her knees and her feet are braced on the back of the seat in front of her and it takes him a minute to realize that her shoulders are shaking and she's _sobbing._

He looks down at the crumpled napkin in his hand and feels the ridiculous urge to go to her. To offer it. To offer her something.

And then she laughs. She laughs and drags the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her face and he knows it's ugly. It's an ugly, snorting thing stuck between laughing and crying. It has to be ugly. Even for her, it has to be.

His eyes dart to the screen because he wants to know. He wants to know what can make her laugh in a moment like this. It's the first time the balloons lift Carl's cart from the ground. Ellie in her guide outfit and Carl's heavy elbow grounding the balloon cart. He laughs, too.

He remembers how Alexis told him in no uncertain terms that he was _not_ allowed to take his Herman Miller chair and a helium tank up to the roof of the building. How she told him no when he suggested an armchair and his mother's bed and the divan and one of the kitchen barstools. How she stopped telling him no and just glared.

He wants to tell Beckett that story. He wants to lean over to her and whisper the short version. He wants to grab a burger or a drink after the movie and tell her the long version. He wants to stay out late with her on a school night.

He wants to know her.

He settles back into his seat. He misses her, but he feels less alone because she's crying and laughing and so is he. So is he.

He watches the movie. He watches her. She never stops crying. Not really. She laughs out loud and hides it behind a fist. She gets caught up in the adventure and her eyes go wide at the harrowing parts, even though she's seen it before.

She must have seen it before. She was crying even before the sad parts and she mouths Russell's lines once in a while.

She loves Dug. Who wouldn't? But she really loves him. She laughs and there's this soft, fond look he didn't really know she had and she saves it mostly for Dug. That makes him a little less lonely, too. He does a mean Dug impression.

She laughs and loves the happy ending, but she hides it behind a frayed, worn out sleeve. And all the while, the tears come steadily.

He knows the feeling.

* * *

He doesn't expect it. No one ever stays through the credits. No one.

He's used to everyone ruining that. Rushing out and chattering and blocking his view. But they stay. They like to see the cast list. To see how we'll they've guessed who's who and talk about where they've seem the, before. They like the music credits. Finding out what that song was and who covered what. He likes it, anyway. He likes the credits and Alexis will sit through them for the right bribe. _Would._

The feeling is settling in again. That nothing feeling, but not so bad. Not yet.

Because no one else stays for the credits, but Beckett hasn't moved. The theater is all but empty now, and she hasn't moved.

At first he thinks she just needs a minute. That she's been crying and she just needs a minute. But he steals a glance her way, and she's watching. Her head tips up to catch the text as it scrolls by.

She's watching and she doesn't need a minute. She's even hot when she cries. She's been crying for two hours and the light of the screen touches her cheeks with a faint blue and she's gorgeous.

The copyright notice rolls and he has a sudden, blind panic. It finally occurs to him that he's sitting behind her. That she'll have to walk past him. That she'll see him.

A little something angry bubbles up. So what if she sees him? It's a public place. He was here first and so what if she sees him?

He crosses his arms over his chest and slams back into the seat, but it's all bluster. That nothing feeling is creeping back in and worrying at him and he can't bear the thought of her looking right through him.

So he'll go to her. What else can he do? He'll say hello, and maybe she'll yell or maybe she'll ignore him. Maybe she'll still look right through him, but she'll have to see him first. For that first moment, she'll have to see him.

He's just about to do it. He's gathering himself up and thinking what he'll say. What he'll do if she brushes by him without a word.

He's just about to go to her when he realizes that the lights are half up and she's still in her seat. She's not curled up anymore. She's pitched forward with her feet flat on the floor and her head bowed.

There's sadness in every line of her body and he thinks this was a bad idea for her, too. This movie. He thinks maybe she came to get out of her head for a while and this movie was a bad idea. Her shoulders hitch once and still.

He feels like he's intruding. He _is_ intruding. She wouldn't want anyone to see her like this.

Even if it's a public place. Even if he was there first. Even if it's been twenty-four days and he doesn't know how he's going to back to not seeing her. He doesn't know how he's going to go back to doing nothing. But he's intruding.

He stays a moment longer. Just a moment and she's still. She's absolutely still.

He slips out the far side of the aisle and goes.

* * *

He's not quite running by the time he hits the street, but it's close. He's putting distance between himself and the theater. He still has this crazy idea about going to her. Asking her if she wants to talk about it.

Then he thinks he'll go to her and make her talk about it. That he'll tell her how _stupid_ it is to ignore what he found out about her mother because she's mad at him and he wasn't trying to hurt her.

Then he thinks he'll go to her and tell her that she's ruined his life. That he doesn't want this feeling he can't shake. He wants to write and live his life and not feel like he's doing nothing and she ruined _everything_.

He thinks a bunch of stupid things and takes long strides and puts distance between himself and the theater.

He's most of the way past the storefront when he pulls up short. He lingers at the window and feels the dangerous sting of tears, which is fairly ridiculous. The display is a riot of color. It's Dug and Russell practically dancing with excitement. It's Kevin's long legs and one wide eye dipping down behind Carl who is oblivious to the whole thing. It's a sweet, funny moment and he feels the sting of tears.

He's about to move on. He's about to find some place decently isolated. Some place to pull himself together. But he reverses course. He retraces his steps and he's pushing his way into the store.

Something else struggles up and pushes the tears back and he supposes that's good. It's stubborn and pissed off and whatever. It's better than tears. It's better than nothing.

At first he's just brushing through the crowded aisles. His hands are in his pockets and he's not really looking. He's just trying not to make eye contact or step on any kids.

He finds himself in the costume section. He's flicking through the hangers absently when he realizes he should get something for Alexis. She's embarrassed? He'll show her embarrassed.

The knot in his chest loosens a little. He's plotting and that always makes him feel better. He studies the Wilderness Explorer costume and grumbles to himself, not for the first time, about age discrimination. They only have it for little kids and what's _that_ about?

He makes his way to the end cap and there's a collection of pins. He crouches. Scans the rows and grabs a handful. Ellie's bottle cap pin and a few of Russell's badges. Kevin drinking a milkshake. He grins to himself and plots out where he'll pin them. How he'll hide them in plain sight on her backpack and jackets and she'll be finding them for weeks and she'll glare. But she'll pin them on the old hair ribbons hanging on her mirror anyway and he'll keep putting them back.

He grabs a keychain and wishes there were _something_ in the way of costumes for bigger kids. For grown ups.

_Shit._ She's a grown up, isn't she? Alexis is a grown up.

He stuffs the thought down and keeps hunting for something. _Something._ Russell's sash or the hat. _Oooh_ he wonders if they have Muntz's goggles. And Ellie's for Alexis. Father–daughter goggles would be _awesome_ and he's totally prepared to guilt her into that.

He wanders, but the costume section ends and it's all plush now. He picks up a "Baby Kevin." He zips and unzips the egg and pulls out the gangly legs. He tucks that under his arm. _Baby bird._ She may be a grown up, but she's still baby bird.

None of the Carls or Russells is very good, but the Dugs are great. He loves all the Dugs and he could get into trouble here. He walks the aisle carefully and comes to the end. A bunch of them _talk._ Of course they talk and he might be in _real_ trouble here. He might have to call a car.

He tries to keep it together. He tells himself he's going to be sensible. He makes the rounds, pressing buttons and squeezing paws and listening to the dialogue. He laughs. They all make him laugh and he realizes he's exhausted. He's worn out from the movie and crying and seeing Beckett and he's slightly hysterical.

He looks down at himself. His arms are full and the pins keep threatening to spill out of his hand and he wonders what he's even doing here. There's a mostly empty shelf at his elbow and he's just about to dump everything on to it. He's just about to walk out and find somewhere to get a drink.

But there's one more Dug. The only one of its kind on the shelf and his ears are pricked up and his tongue is lolling out and it's his happy dog face and he knows that's the one. He reaches out and squeezes the plush paw and the doofy voice rushes out:

_I just met you. And I_ love _you._

He stands there staring for a minute. More than a minute. Something nearly knocks him over. He looks down and it's a little girl diving for a different plush on the bottom shelf. her mother is hot on her heels and she looks up him with a harried, apologetic smile.

He says something polite and clutches his loot. He turns and then he's at the register. He's out the door and the bags are bumping his knees. He's home and he should be laying out his master plan for ambushing Alexis, but he's not.

He's sitting on the bed with a stuffed dog in his lap, squeezing its paw over and over.

_I just met you. And I_ love _you._

* * *

_2013_

She doesn't believe in the therapeutic value of a good cry. He wishes she did.

Because she's sad lately. She denies it, but he can tell. He sees the work it takes to keep her shoulders straight and the sharp edge to her voice when something gets to her. Him. A case. The city. She's sad and she's fighting the inclination to bow under the weight.

She's sad tonight. He can tell by the way she orders one more drink than she usually would. It's the six of them out for a quieter celebration of Jenny and Kevin's anniversary. They had the big party—giant, actually—on the day and Jenny wanted something just for their little family.

_Family_.

It keeps coming up. It's how Jenny is anyway, and now she has babies on the brain, and it keeps coming up. She means well. They all mean well, but it's hard on Kate. It's bad timing. The coincidence of dates.

He stops himself a drink shy of his usual and she gives him a sharp look. A sharp look with an effort that says she doesn't need him taking care of her. But he just shrugs and lays his hand over her thigh to say it's not like that.

And it's not. It's not about her. He's just feeling a little soft already and he doesn't need an assist from the alcohol. He's not sad, but there's something about winter that makes him need this. That makes him want to lay in supplies and gather around a table with people he loves and it means a lot to him. The six of them like this. It means a lot and it makes him a little teary.

And he believes in the therapeutic value of a good cry, just not around cops. Not around _most_ cops. He grins to himself and dips his head to brush a kiss over her temple. Esposito makes exaggerated retching noises and Ryan consoles him. Jenny scolds and Lanie laughs.

Kate looks up at him. She means it to be sharp. Something for show, but she doesn't quite get there. She's sad and it just comes out shaky. Forlorn on anyone who wasn't Kate Beckett.

"Do you want to go?" he says in a low voice and it's a dirty move. She won't be happy about it, but he doesn't care right now.

She makes it this time. This time it _is_ a sharp look, but he doesn't flinch. It was a dirty move and he knew he'd pay.

It doesn't last. The sharpness doesn't last and she gives him a small nod.

He makes a show of it. He yawns and says he was up late . . . _writing_. . .and he trades barbs with Esposito and Ryan. Lanie's watching him like she knows what's going on though and she gives him an approving nod. Jenny catches him around the waist and he bear hugs her back, bearing the brunt of her effusive attention.

Kate squeezes Jenny's shoulder and retreats a few steps, shooting him a grateful look.

She's sad and this is how it takes her. She withdraws. Even after all the work she's done—the work he knows she's still doing—this is still how it takes her.

He's half afraid she'll want to go home alone and he steels himself for it. For a smile she hopes will do and a good night kiss and two cabs.

But she hooks her arm through his and says thank you so quietly he almost doesn't hear it. She tucks her chin against her chest and her shoulders droop.

He hails a cab and takes her home.

* * *

It's early yet. Kind of. They hit the Old Haunt right after work and it's that in-between time. Too late for dinner and too early for bed.

"Anything you want to do?" he asks.

He turns to help her with her coat and blinks at the tension in her spine.

"Castle, don't manage me," she snaps. She steps away and takes the coat off herself.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I wasn't . . . I didn't mean to."

She deflates immediately. They stand there in the hallway not looking at each other.

"No, I'm sorry," she sighs. "I know . . . I'm just . . ."

"Sad?" It's probably stupid. He'll probably pay for it. But he doesn't see the point. He doesn't see the point of _not_ saying it.

"I'm not . . ." It's immediate, but she trails off just as quickly. She looks up at him and her eyes are suspiciously bright.

He reaches for her and he'll probably pay for that, too, but she's _sad_ and it's ok. It's _normal_ and he can't just stand there and pretend that she's not or she shouldn't be.

She's limp against him. She hooks her thumbs through his belt loops like she doesn't have the energy to hold on herself, so he holds on for both of them. He expects her to push him away. To complain that he's crushing her, but she's just limp against him.

They're quiet a long while and he feels her drawing herself up. He feels her calling up the sharpness and trying to stand straight and he probably can't stop her. He probably can't convince her that it's ok, but there's already a long list of things he's going to pay for, so what's one more?

"It's not a girl thing, Beckett," he says. She moves to look up at him, but he threads his hand into her hair and kisses the top of her head. "Having a good cry is not a girl thing."

She laughs. It's small, but it's a laugh and she presses her face into his chest.

"Oh, I know, Castle," she says drily. "Believe me, I know it's not a 'girl thing'."

"A catharsis of pity and fear. Aristotle. Not a girl thing." He kisses her hair again and steps back a little. "I'm just saying."

She gives him a small smile and it's sad. She lets it be sad and it feels strangely like a win.

"Can we. . . . " She pauses. She worries her lip with her teeth. "How about a movie?"

That feels like a win, too.

* * *

He tells her to pick while he changes . She shoots him a look over her shoulder like she knows he's up to something, but she doesn't push it.

It takes him some digging around to find him. _Stratigraphy,_ he thinks, and strokes his hand over the plush ears. It's been a long time. A long time and he still feels a pang when he thinks about it. Even now it hurts to think about those long months and that feeling of nothing.

But it's no match for the Dug's wide smile and lolling tongue and he has to stop himself from making him talk. He roots around and finds a stray Christmas bow in one of the bins he hasn't found time to take back down to storage. He sets the bow at a jaunty angle and stands the little dog carefully on her pillow.

She's still rooting around on the shelf when he comes out. She turns around and he sees the DVD in her hand. He's shocked still and not surprised at all. Both at once.

He grins at her. "I'll get the Kleenex."

She rolls her eyes at him, but nods. "Probably best. Because it's not a girl thing."

* * *

She won't let him put Milk Duds in the popcorn, but nobody's perfect. She's just close. Really, really close.

"Where would you even _get_ them?" she asks as she dumps the popcorn into a bowl.

"Jorge will deliver for the right price," he says and manages snag a few pieces before she slaps his hand away. "Real butter at least?"

"Fine." She sighs like it's a great sacrifice, but it's one of her vices and they both know that.

He settles himself on one end of the couch. He's surprised when she drops right next to him—right next to him—and tries not to show it. When she burrows under his arm and right up against his side, though, he has to kiss her and he almost ruins it.

She sits up straight and shies away and he's about to beg her not to when she stops herself. She stops herself and pulls his arm around her.

"Play," she murmurs.

* * *

She cries. So does he, but that's kind of a given.

And it's not like it was then. It's not like four years ago when she made herself small and the tears kept coming.

She cries for Ellie and Carl. She flinches once. The first time his thumb intercepts the path of a tear, she flinches. But he's not looking at her. He's very carefully not looking at her and she just presses her lips to his chest and takes a deep breath. She reaches up with her own thumb and gathers the moisture at the corner of his eye. He smiles down at her and nudges her attention back to the screen.

She cries. Longer and harder than she's ever let him see. He strokes his hand down her arm and over her back and she lets him.

The tears slow and then stop and her body is heavy against his and it's different. She laughs, too, and it's more than a little worn out. She pushes up against his arm, but it's just so she can stretch out with her head in his lap.

She laughs and sighs and gasps, but her eyelids are drooping. They flutter closed and he's not sure what to do. His hand hovers over her shoulder and he wonders if he should wake her.

"I'm not sleeping, Castle." She says it before he has a chance to decide.

"Not watching, either," he says with a soft laugh. "We can go to bed."

She shakes her head and cracks one eye open. Her hair spills over his thigh and that suddenly seems like a _very_ good idea, even though she's obviously exhausted. "Gotta make sure Dug's ok."

He thinks about arguing, but she's right. She doesn't need him managing her. He nods and tips her chin back toward the TV.

* * *

She tries to clean up. She has this thing. Like she's a guest here. He snags the popcorn bowl from her and shoos her toward the bedroom.

She doesn't argue and it might just be that she's tired, but he hopes not. He hopes not.

He trails through the loft, turning off lights and putting things away. He hears her laughing. All the way from the kitchen he hears her laughing and he hurries for the bedroom.

She's cross-legged on the bed and grinning. She's tired and pale and her shoulders dip in, but she's grinning, too.

She sees him in the doorway and the grin widens. She arches an eyebrow and squeezes the plush paw.

_Will you be my master?_

Her head falls back and she laughs again. He crosses the bedroom in two steps and clambers on to the bed. He stretches out next to her and she threads her fingers in his hair.

"Castle, I thought you'd never ask." She smiles down at him.

"Please," he scoffs. "I was asking for four years."

"True," she agrees and presses the red patch again.

_I can bark._ Dug demonstrates and adds, _And here's howling._ _Awoooooooo!_

He tips his own head back and howls along.

She presses her fingers over his mouth and he kisses them.

"I'm surprised it still works after all the abuse you must have put him through."

"I didn't," he says hesitantly. "I haven't . . . not since I bought him."

She looks surprised and her face falls a little. He looks up at her. He's not sure he gets it. She knows. Since Christmas she's known about them. All the gifts. He's not sure he gets it, but he makes a sudden decision.

"I was there," he says quickly. Before he can change his mind. "When you saw it in the theater. Not the first time, I don't think. You . . . you cried like you knew it was going to be sad. I was there."

It suddenly feels like a confession, and he wasn't thinking of it that way, but he supposes it is. A confession. An overdue apology. It just feels like something he needed to say.

"I know." She seems him panic. She dips her head to press her lips to his forehead. "Don't I always know when you're being creepy?"

He huffs out a laugh, but it hurts a little and he has to know. "The whole time? You knew the whole time?"

She shakes her head. "No. Maybe . . . halfway through? There was this loud— _really_ loud—kind of strangled, honking and the whole theater turned to look at you."

He gives her an exaggerated pout. "It was a manly sob. Some of us believe in the therapeutic value of a good cry."

She gives him a tired smile. "You may be on to something, Castle."

She expects him to crow. She's bracing for it, but he reaches up and traces a fingertip over her tearstained cheek.

"Maybe," he says softly. He reaches over and presses the little golden paw again.

_I just met you. And I_ love _you._

  



End file.
